


Big Weekend Plans

by luxover



Series: Donovash [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-11
Updated: 2012-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-29 08:35:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/pseuds/luxover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve’s there, wearing an inside-out Galaxy jersey because he’s not supposed to be wearing team colors in the box, and he’s holding a megaphone. He waves like a maniac when he sees Landon looking and yells, “Hey Landon! L.D., over here!” Landon just shakes his head and walks closer to midfield.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Big Weekend Plans

**Author's Note:**

> Based loosely [on](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEb1iV3o4bc) [these](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N-nstZzw3JQ) [videos](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=thRRhOaZVhU).

It happens when Landon’s on the pitch, playing a home game against the Sounders. He’s just outside the box and he’s pretty open, so he shoots to the top left corner; Keller blocks his shot—it wasn’t as good as it could have and should have been—and the crowd goes crazy, seeing it almost go in. And then, in a lull between screams, he hears it:

“Nice try, Landon! Next time!”

Landon knows that voice anywhere because it haunts him at night, but he doesn’t know why he’d be hearing it there, at the Home Depot Center, or why Steve fucking Nash would even be in California, a state away from where he plays and an entire continent away from where he lives in the offseason.

And yet, there he is.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Landon mutters under his breath, and he looks up towards the box seats. Steve’s there, wearing an inside-out Galaxy jersey because he’s not supposed to be wearing team colors in the box, and he’s holding a megaphone. He waves like a maniac when he sees Landon looking and yells, “Hey Landon! L.D., over here!” Landon just shakes his head and walks closer to midfield.

Steve will get tired of yelling sometime around the half, Landon knows. All he’s got to do is just wait it out.

 

Steve doesn’t get tired. He spends most of the first half screaming through his megaphone, getting the crowd to chant, _U-S-A! U-S-A!_ like that makes any sense, and Landon just gets frustrated, watching his shots on goal go wider and wider and wider. He doesn’t fucking get it.

“You alright?” David asks when they’re holding at someplace just past mid, and Landon looks at him—at _David Beckham_ —and wonders why Steve has latched on to him when there are other people in the MLS, people like Beckham and Henry and Marquez. He wonders why he was the unlucky one.

“No,” Landon says, but when David shoots him a look, he takes it back and says, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Landon is decidedly anything but fine; he can’t score, can hardly keep track of defenders, and finds himself sneaking glances up to the box, to where Steve is clapping above his head and really getting into the match. Landon wants to shake whoever invited him by the shoulders, wants to ask them what the hell they were thinking, if they were thinking at all. Landon isn’t, can’t hardly think, he’s playing so poorly. It’s embarrassing.

In the second half, Landon makes a total of three crosses that should lead to goals but instead lead to nothing, and in the fifty-ninth minute, has a perfect opportunity to score, all the defenders being caught out of position except for the keeper. And so Landon kicks it, aims for the far post and the ball just—he almost can’t believe it, but the ball just—goes wide. _Really_ wide. It doesn’t at all do what he wanted it to.

And as Landon stands there, his hands on his hips in disbelief, the Home Depot Center erupts around him, singing his name over and over again to the tune of _Que Sera, Sera_. There’s not a doubt in his mind who started that one.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters under his breath, and he walks back to mid.

 

When the match ends, Landon walks down the tunnel, trailing behind the rest of his team, and he doesn't talk to anyone. He's mad-- a bit at the Sounders, a bit at Steve, but mostly at himself-- and he doesn't want to deal with anyone for at least the next few hours, or maybe the next few days. Maybe he'll just crawl into a hole and die somewhere, or maybe Benny'll call and sing pop songs at him until he cracks a smile, Landon doesn't know. He had nothing but shot after shot, it feels like, only he couldn't get it on target and they lost because of that; Landon knows that the fans deserve better, and that he's paid to provide them with better, and he's just upset that they had to watch him break down like that, and that Steve had to see it too, with his big mouth and his loud voice and the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles and the way his eyes are laughing at him even when his mouth isn't. Landon wishes Steve wasn’t there to see him like that, but he doesn't know why and so he stops wishing it. Mostly he just wishes Steve wasn't there at all.

David bumps shoulders with him then; he's smiling and Landon is a little bit annoyed at that, but then he figures that David is older and has played for longer and has won more trophies, and so maybe it's okay for him to be.

"Got something that'll cheer you up," David says. He's still smiling.

"What?" Landon asks.

"Well. Some _one_ ," David corrects himself, and Landon's immediately wary. David and Victoria have tried to set him up before, and it has always ended horribly.

"Who?" Landon asks His eyes narrow, and he doesn't know why—or rather, he knows _exactly_ why—but his heart starts pounding and he thinks, _Oh God. Please, no_. They turn the corner and the locker room door is right there, and Steve Nash is standing right outside; he lights up like a fucking Christmas tree when he sees Landon.

"Hey, Landon!" Steve calls out. He gets on his toes even though he's practically giant already, and he waves with one hand; the other hand is holding a bouquet of flowers, honest to god flowers, the wilting kind that is left over at grocery stores in the middle of the night.

"You are so dead," he mutters to David, but David only laughs, heads into the locker room, and then it's just him and Steve in the hallway. Landon doesn't want to be there.

Steve speaks first, which is good because Landon doesn't know what to say, but bad because it's Steve and while he always has something to say, it's always something stupid and never what Landon wants to hear.

"Good match," he says.

Landon asks, "Did we just watch the same thing?" but he's not expecting an answer.

Steve shrugs and smiles again, that big, stupid smile that Landon just wants to wipe off his face, and he says, "Sometimes you can be too hard on yourself, Landon. Your crosses were there every time; you've got to let yourself see that it wasn't all bad." And Landon is so taken aback because Steve he just said something _normal_ , and more than that, he said something that Landon genuinely needed and wanted to hear. And for a second, Landon thinks maybe he should smile back, maybe he should invite Steve over afterwards to play some FIFA, only then Steve holds out the flowers and Landon changes his mind. "I got these, special for you," Steve says.

Landon's not proud of it, and it's definitely not the way his mother raised him, but he just accepts the flowers, turns on his heel, and throws them as far down the tunnel as he can. They land with a barely audible thud that's mostly just the crinkle of the plastic that they're wrapped in.

"What the hell, L.D.?" Steve asks. He looks upset, like he genuinely can't believe that Landon just did that, and Landon thinks that's Steve's own fault. "Those were $5.99!"

"Yeah, well," Landon says, only he doesn't know what else to say after that, and so he just heads into the locker room and slams the door behind him.

 

If anything, Landon's only in a worse mood after that. He stands in the shower for what feels like forever, and the entire time he's thinking about Steve instead of thinking about the match like he should be. He thinks that Steve is just plain stupid—arrogant and self-centered and obsessive and just so, so stupid. He thinks that Steve is too sincere, too honest, too much. He thinks that Steve is annoying, really annoying in the way that he has to do everything that Landon can do, only better. He thinks that Steve's an idiot for liking him so much when he shouldn't.

Almost everyone's gone when Landon finally steps out of the shower, just a few stragglers left behind, Todd and Mike and Chris and that's it. His hands shake when he pulls up his jeans, although he doesn't know if it's from anger of if he's just nervous, and then figures it has to be anger because he doesn't know why he would be nervous in the first place.

On his way out the door, Todd asks him, "Any big weekend plans?"

"No," Landon snaps, and then he lets out a breath, rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms. "Sorry, I just—no. No big plans."

"Alright," Todd says. He hefts his bag over his shoulder. "Well, take it easy, yeah?"

Landon smiles tightly; "Yeah," he says.

Todd leaves and Landon pulls on his socks, shoves his feet into his shoes, and he really just can't believe this is his life. He used to have his shit together, he really did, but something happened— _Bianca_ happened, Landon wants to think, but he knows that's a lie—and now he's just tired and unhappy all the time.

Landon stands up and shoulders his bag, and he plans to go home and sleep for a million years, but Steve's still standing right outside the locker room when he opens the door to head out; he's leaning against the wall and doesn't seem to realize that Landon's even there because Todd's yelling something to him as he walks away, something about Isiah Thomas that Landon doesn't quite catch but that makes Steve laugh. Landon sighs, but not because he's frustrated.

"Oh," Steve says. He finally notices that Landon's there. "Hey, L.D."

"Hey," Landon says back, because he's got nothing else _to_ say. He sighs again—this time it _is_ out of frustration—and then turns around, walks up the tunnel, away from the exit.

"The exit's—" Steve says, and he jerks a thumb over his shoulder, in the opposite direction, as if Landon didn't already know where the exit was. Landon doesn't say anything though, just keeps walking until he's right next to the flowers that he threw earlier. He bends down to pick them up, and on the walk back to where Steve is, Landon straightens out the plastic wrapping, tries to fix the stems that are bent and broken. Steve asks, "Are they—"

"They're fine," Landon cuts him off. He doesn't say it nicely, but Steve doesn't seem to mind.

They walk out to the parking lot together, after that, not saying anything, and Landon thinks that's maybe the most fun he's had with Steve, just not doing anything or saying anything. Steve does keep looking at him, though, when he thinks Landon isn't watching, and it makes Landon feel unsettled because he doesn't understand it.

"Wanna hang out?" Steve finally asks, and Landon's not sure why—maybe he's overcompensating for the fact that he was a supreme asshole earlier—but even though he doesn’t want to, he says, "Alright. Want to come over and play some FIFA?"

Steve just smiles lopsidedly and, looking out towards the cars, he says, "Hell yeah, L.D. I tell you what; I'll even take it easy on you this time. Going too hard, last time; you didn't stand a chance."

And Landon? Landon regrets it already.

 

Steve follows Landon back to his place; he’s a shitty driver, rides Landon’s bumper almost constantly and drives without his headlights until Landon breaks down and calls him on his cell.

“Chill, Landon,” Steve says when Landon tells him to take some fucking driving lessons.

“Quit riding my ass and then maybe I would be chill,” Landon snaps, only that’s the wrong thing to say because it makes Steve laugh real loud and swerve in the lane.

When they get to Landon’s, Landon parks and hops out of his car almost instantly; he walks up to his front door and unlocks it, heads halfway inside without waiting for Steve. A part of him wants to just lock the door and pull down the curtains and leave Steve on his front step, but he knows well enough to know that he has no choice in the matter, not anymore, and so he’s just got to deal with it.

Steve jogs up to him, juggling his car keys in his hands as he nods towards the flowers and says, “You’re gonna want to put those in water, L.D. Otherwise they’ll lose their petals, like—” He reaches out, flicks his fingers at Landon’s hair.

“Ha, ha,” Landon says, but the joke isn’t funny because he’s not balding, and so Steve can just shut it.

Landon asks if Steve wants anything—water or beer, maybe some chips—and then leads him into the living room. It’s a little bit of a mess, newspapers and magazines lying about because he wasn’t expecting to bring anyone home, but it’s not too bad and Landon just stacks all of that stuff in one neat pile on the coffee table.

"Nice set-up," Steve says, looking at the entertainment center and the game consoles and the way Landon has all his controller cords wrapped neatly up. "You should get a bigger tv, though, like mine. Remember?" He holds his arms out wide as if to remind Landon that his tv was absolutely massive, a stupid grin stretched wide across his face. "Like a trillion inches wide, easy. Nah, just kidding L.D., it was only eighty-two. What's this, like sixty-three?

And that's just—Jesus, what does it take to get this guy to act like a normal human being? On what planet would that possibly be considered the right thing to say?

"You know what?" Landon asks, and he snaps again. He's not an angry guy, he's really not, but this whole thing with Steve—it’s all just so stupid and so ridiculous and he really isn’t in the mood to be dealing with it, not now and not ever. "Just shut up. I mean, why do you do that? It's a tv, not a rivalry. Why does everything have to be a competition with you? Can't you just have a normal conversation like a rational adult without bragging about how great everything in your life is? I mean, congratulations, but I don't _care_."

And Landon feels a little bad after that, seeing the way that Steve's smile just falls, and it's all written right there on his stupid face, how he's hurt and sad and confused. Landon wants to say, _What the hell is wrong with you?_ or _Are you seriously surprised that I'm mad?_ or maybe even _Can we just pretend I didn't say any of that?_ He doesn't, but a part of him wants to.

Steve swallows loudly and says, "Sorry, I just—sorry. You're just so _cool_ , L.D., and I'm just, you know, lanky and like, I'm not from here—"

"You're from Canada," Landon interrupts. "It's not exactly culture shock."

"—and I'm awkward," Steve barrels on, "and you're good at so many things, and I'm only really good at basketball and soccer—"

"You're not _any_ good at soccer," Landon interrupts again, and then realizes that he probably shouldn't say that. He can't _not_ , though.

"I am, though," Steve insists. "I can bicycle kick with the best of them; it was just muddy that day, Landon, you know that."

"Fine," Landon sighs. "Alright."

"Alright, what?" Steve asks, and Landon pinches the bridge of his nose. He can't believe what he's about to say.

"Alright, do you want to go outside and play some basketball?" Landon asks, and he watches Steve's mood change completely, just like that.

"L.D.," he says, but he adds an extra syllable, stretching it out to El _Dee_ —ee. "You have a hoop in the back?"

"Yeah," Landon says. "I mean, it's just one so we'll have to play half-court, but—"

Steve cuts him off with a laugh, and then whoops; he literally _whoops_ , which Landon didn't realize people actually did, and he says, "Landon, you are going _down_! I mean, I play in the _NBA_ , and you're like four foot five. Can you even dunk?"

Landon rolls his eyes and heads to get a basketball from the garage. Steve is at it again, bragging and just generally being himself, but it feels different this time, like if it's about basketball then maybe Landon doesn't really mind.

"Do you even know what a lay-up is?" Steve calls after him.

Landon chooses to ignore it.

 

It comes as extremely surprising to Landon that Steve plays basketball against him with none of the earlier arrogance and with nothing but focus and determination. He’s serious about it—real serious—like it doesn’t matter how tall Landon is or how infrequently he plays; all that seems to matter to Steve is that he wins because he wants to win rather than that he wins because he wants his opponent to lose. He plays the way Landon plays soccer: like he loves it, like it doesn’t matter what level he plays at so long as he’s playing, like he could play forever and never get tired of it.

He’s still annoying though, still Steve.

“Oh!” he says when Landon misses a shot. “ _Ohh_! That was close, L.D., just like, six more inches and it would’ve been in.”

“Shut up,” Landon snaps, but then Steve holds his hands up, says, “Hey, I’m serious; try it again.” He tosses Landon the ball and Landon thinks that maybe this is a personality improvement or something, because Steve gives him tips on how to hold the ball and how much wrist to put into the motion and how to do a “sick trick shot.”

“Hey, Landon,” Steve yells from across the court. “Watch this, Landon!” He tosses the basketball in the air, catches it on the back of his neck, and lets it roll across his shoulders. When the ball hits his hand, he loops it under one leg and before palming it and running to dunk.

“Did you see that?” he asks, jogging back over to Landon and ignoring his cries of, _Travel! Travel!_ “You were watching, right? Bet you can’t do that.”

“I’m four foot five, remember?” Landon deadpans, throwing Steve’s words back at him.

“One day, young grasshopper,” Steve says, and he smiles, tongue between his teeth as he fakes chucking the ball at Landon’s face. Landon flinches, and Steve laughs. “L.D.,” he says. “Come on! I wouldn’t!” He drops the ball to the ground.

“I _know_ ,” Landon says, but he didn’t, and so instead of apologizing for it, Landon just reaches forward, tugs at the hem of Steve’s shirt, and kisses him on the mouth. Steve makes a noise like he was caught off guard, but then he kisses back, and Landon has never been so grateful for his high garden walls in his life.

Steve pulls back, a goofy grin on his face, and says, “I was not expecting that.”

“What?” Landon asks, because—how could he not have been?

“I mean, I wanted you to, because I, you know,” Steve motions jacking off with one hand, “thinking of you, but I thought you hated me.”

“I can’t believe you just said that,” Landon said. “What the fuck is wrong with you.”

“Nothing; I’m perfect,” Steve says, and he laughs.

“Shut up,” Landon says. “Oh my god, just shut up.” He takes a step forward to kiss him again, and trips over the basketball; he falls and knocks the both of them to the ground.

“Ow, fuck,” Steve says. “My head.” And then, realizing their position: “If you wanted me on my back, Donovan, all you had to do was—”

“No,” Landon says. “Seriously, no. I did _not_ want you on your—it was an _accident_.”

Steve leans forward, nips at Landon’s bottom lip, and shoves at Landon’s shoulder until Landon’s on his back and Steve’s on top. And Landon just—he wasn’t angling for this, not in a million years, but suddenly Steve’s on top of him and he’s just so fucking— just so much taller than him, and Landon thinks maybe, yeah, okay.

“Fuck,” he says.

Steve just says his name—“ _L.D._ ,” and fuck, when did Landon start thinking of that as his name?—and then runs his hands down Landon’s arms to his wrists, pins them out to the side without any effort. He grinds down, and Landon can’t—he’s getting hard and wants to get rid of the clothing between them even though it’s still Steve, and Steve keeps saying stupid shit as he moves, things like, “ _L.D_.,” and “Fuck yeah, you like that, huh?” and “I’ve got a condom in my wallet.”

“Fuck you,” Landon says, but he’s kind of laughing a bit because he’s not really one for talking during sex, and _yeah right_ he’s having sex in his fucking back yard.

“Yeah, I want to,” Steve says. He rubs his thumb along the inside of Landon’s wrist.

“No, I meant— _no_ ,” Landon says, and Steve just laughs a little bit, keeps rocking against Landon as he mushes his nose into the side of Landon’s neck.

“I know,” Steve says. “I was joking, dude.”

And maybe he was joking, and maybe he wasn’t, but either way, he pulls back, takes Landon’s shirt off and sucks a hickey right in the middle of his chest. It’s weird, for Landon, how he doesn’t really want to stop him.

Steve slides his palm along Landon’s lower belly and slips his fingers under the top of Landon’s jeans. “Please,” he says. “Please, L.D., please, can I—?”

“Yeah,” Landon says, and he’s surprised by how much he wants it. “Yeah, yeah.”

Steve fights Landon’s jeans open and then jerks Landon off, quick and with nothing more than a spit-slicked palm, and Landon comes embarrassingly fast. He’s doing fine, holding off, but then Steve starts rutting against Landon’s leg and it hits Landon just how similar that is to last time, only their roles are reversed, and Steve’s saying, “L.D., fuck. _Landon_ , you’re so fucking hot. Have you been using Rogaine? Shit, so _hot_.”

And then Landon just comes, laughing out loud because he literally can’t believe that someone like Steve fucking Nash exists in the world; Steve comes inside his own jeans almost a minute later.

Landon just lies there on the sad excuse for a basketball court for another minute, feeling boneless and light, Steve stretched out alongside him.

“Fuck,” Steve says after a minute, doing that thing again where he stretches the word out into two syllables. And then he does the unthinkable: he pumps his fist in the air a little bit and says, “U-S-A! U-S-A!”

And that’s just—Landon can’t stop himself, he just loses control, starts laughing like crazy because Steve seriously just said that, and also because he just let Steve Nash jerk him off in his backyard and life cannot— _cannot_ —get any stranger.

“I have to—” Landon says, “—I have to get up. I can’t believe we just did that.”

He stumbles to his feet, and just—Jesus, this is like déjà vu, and he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with that.

"At least," Steve says, watching him stumble around, "I mean, at least come over and let me cook you dinner."

"No," Landon says, and he does up his belt, picks up his shirt and heads inside, up the few steps and through the sliding glass door. He walks into his kitchen and throws his shirt on the table, and it's so familiar, what he's feeling, the same confusion and disbelief that he felt the last time, only this time he's reminded a little bit of Bianca, too, and that throws him for a loop. He doesn't know what to do with that and so he just stands there for a minute, shirtless, before snapping out of it and going into his fridge to take out a couple of raw potatoes. He puts them down on the counter and goes back to grab some mushrooms, some steaks. Through the window, he can see Steve patting his pockets down to make sure he didn't lose anything before awkwardly pulling the crotch of his jeans away from his skin; since there's really nothing else Landon can do, he picks up the food and some tin foil to take outside, to where the grill is just out of sight.

Steve looks up when Landon struggles to slide open the door with just his shoulders and his feet, and when he does, Landon tells him, " _I_ cook."

Steve smiles— the same one, the one that Landon hated for the longest time because he always thought it was mocking him—and, at least for the moment, Landon's okay with that.  



End file.
